WHY THE LEAVES TURN BROWN 



THE house-wall that belongs to the Virginia creeper 

 is flaming scarlet ; yellow fire is creeping down the 

 mighty elms ; sycamore and lime hold up huge golden 

 plates to the still air ; dogwood is purple-black ; the 

 blackberry brambles show all these colours and many 

 more ; the beech will soon eclipse them all with its 

 red-hot, radiant copper ; and then down will come 

 all these banners to the earth that gave them. The 

 unending beauty of autumn reconciles us to the sad- 

 ness of the winter change. It strikes us as more of a 

 miracle than the green progress of spring, because we 

 understand a little the reason of greenness, while we 

 shall never understand why it serves the trees to be 

 quite so beautiful in their annual moult. Perhaps 

 there is no answer, but we shall for ever ask the 

 question, as well as answer it with absurd inadequacy. 

 Death is usually accounted a privative phenomenon. 

 It is life that changes the green caterpillar, through 

 the brown chrysalis into the richly painted butterfly. 

 But the butterfly is not more brilliant or varied than 

 the green leaves that have been painted by death. 

 We are asked by science to believe that autumn 

 leaves are red because the green chlorophyl grains 

 have been withdrawn from them that the red was 

 there all through the summer side by side with the 

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